


The Professor Is In

by Kitschgeist



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Farce, Fluff and Crack, Freudian Elements, Gen, Humor, by Freudian elements I just mean some phallic objects and Professor Presbury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-03 21:49:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitschgeist/pseuds/Kitschgeist
Summary: "I suppose you've recovered enough from that dog bite to come to my lecture tomorrow."Holmes' eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "You must have deduced my injury from-""I did not use abductive reasoning, Holmes," said Moriarty, gently. "It was in theChroniclethis week."Holmes knitted his brow. Then, he laughed. "Ah, but it's obvious from my gait that-""I'm being serious, Holmes. It was on the front page: 'Dog Bites Man'."





	The Professor Is In

**Author's Note:**

> Some more dialogue-heavy scenes with questionable humour and butchered characterisation that I wanted to get out of my system. I hope I've purged all of it now.

Professor James Moriarty strayed from the campus' cobblestone paths and strolled down to the river. He had decided to relax for the day and take the scenic route to the library.

The section of the river near the bridge was wide, and on the water were couples and groups of chatty youths slowly punting away their afternoons.

When he reached the riverbank, the young men on one punt waved at him. He waved back. Suddenly, there came a strange sloshing sound.

Heads turned. Women gasped. Together, the crowd froze in shock and not-quite-awe.

A large, middle-aged man punted down the river, alone, with wasteful fervour. His foppish red suit could have belonged to his son. A thin wisp of smoke trickled from the cigar clamped between his teeth.

He had one foot raised upon the bow of his punt in feeble mimicry of a captain from a sea novel. With every stroke, he heaved his pole like it was Excalibur from a stone, held it in the air for a moment as if to admire his own form, then thrust it down like he was trying to till the riverbed.

The other punters silently made way. They did not laugh for two reasons, mutually exclusive: they pitied him, or knew him. Moriarty continued walking, at a brisker pace.

The man managed to catch up. He took his cigar from his mouth.

"Moriarty!" he cried.

"Presbury!" Moriarty cried back, in a rather different tone.

"I cannot believe it has taken me this long to understand the pleasures of punting! Care to join me?"

"No, I... no."

Professor Presbury grinned and let out a smug laugh. He looked over his shoulder at the youths he had left in his wake. They were still staring at him. He turned back to Moriarty.

 

 

"...then he said, 'Looks like I got the ladies excited!'" Moriarty groaned. "The man has no shame! None!"

Sitting on the opposite side of Moriarty's office desk, Sebastian Moran cringed. "God, how oblivious is he?"

"And you know what happened next? He couldn't lift his pole. It got stuck in the riverbed."

"Of course it would," said Moran, cringing again.

Moriarty poured himself yet another glass of wine from the bottle on his desk.

"And because Presbury wasn't going to stop panting and pulling at his pole any time soon, I went and helped him," he said.

"You're too kind. Far too kind," said Moran.

"Someone had to put the other punters out of their misery. By the time I got there on another punt, his face and suit were the same colour and he had dropped his cigar into the water."

"You should have left him."

Moriarty shrugged and glanced out the window. The stretch of the river where he had had rescued Presbury earlier that day was barely visible in the distance, obscured by trees and the dark of night.

He took a sip of his wine. "I must say it again - this is exquisite, Moran."

"The dealer swore it was well-preserved," said Moran. "Lucky for him he was right."

"1811! Not much older than Presbury! He says he's fifty-two, but he must be nearly sixty..."

"Perhaps Presbury isn't the best topic to go with drinks," said Moran, swirling the wine in his glass.

"Does he go with anything?" said Moriarty. "Though, there is one thing I can praise him for - holding on to his chair for so long. I hope I can at least match him."

"As long as you don't end up like him."

"Ha! If you ever see me indecently punting about, whisper 'Presbury' and push me into the river."

Moran laughed. "I doubt that would be necessary, Moriarty. I'm sure you'll be much the same when you reach his age."

"You really think so?" asked Moriarty, raising an eyebrow.

Moran emptied his glass. "You already dress like a widower and slouch like an old man."

"Touché!" said Moriarty. "And here I thought you would have a go at my hair."

"Too easy. Besides," Moran said, "grey hair suits you."

"Oh?" Moriarty took another sip of wine.

"It does. Because you dress like a widower and-"

"Moran! I-"

A knock on the door interrupted Moriarty. Moran raised his eyebrows in surprise. Moriarty rolled his eyes, then stood to answer it.

"Ah, it's you, Holmes," he said, after opening the door, "come in."

A tall young man entered the room. "Good evening, Professor. I saw the light from your window when I walked past, outside," he said, "so I thought I would check if-"

"Not a problem," said Moriarty, walking back to his desk. "Your only possible purpose has already crossed my mind."

"Of course it has," said Holmes, matter-of-factly. "I did not collect my paper from you last week."

Moriarty hummed in agreement. He lifted the jewel-encrusted egg-shaped object he used as a paper-weight, and went through the stack of students' papers on his desk. Holmes eyed the paper-weight.

"It was from an antiques shop," said Moriarty, not looking up.

Holmes turned his attention to the bottle of wine. "Does that say 1811? Wasn't that the year of that comet you said-"

"What?" said Moriarty, picking up the bottle and reading it. "1866, Holmes. It's faded." He set it down with its label, which read _1811 Cuvée de la Comète_ , facing away from Holmes.

"Oh," said Holmes. After a pause, he said, "Wine has been hard to come by, lately."

"It is, but Moran here has friends in the trade," said Moriarty, nodding towards Moran.

Holmes regarded the other man, and smiled politely at him. "Might you be in the military, sir?"

"Right you are," said Moran, smiling back. "And I only wish I could afford comet vintages, with my salary."

"Don't we all?" added Moriarty. He retrieved Holmes' paper. "I suppose you've recovered enough from that dog bite to come to my lecture tomorrow." 

Holmes' eyes widened, and the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "You must have deduced my injury from-"

"I did not use abductive reasoning, Holmes," said Moriarty, gently. "It was in the _Chronicle_ this week."

Holmes knitted his brow. Then, he laughed. "Ah, but it's obvious from my gait that-"

"I'm being serious, Holmes. It was on the front page: 'Dog Bites Man'."

"But who on earth thought that was fit to run in the _Chronicle_?" asked Holmes, his ears rapidly turning pink.

"The editorial committee want the paper to have a mascot," said Moriarty. "All but the editor are in favour of Trevor's dog. They're quite charmed by it, seeing him walk it on campus so often. But the editor insists his horse would be better for the role. He was only too happy to twist your encounter with it into some sort of scandal."  

A look of horror briefly crossed Holmes' face.

"Oh, people will forget, eventually," said Moriarty, holding Holmes' paper. "Now, if you bit back... Tell him about the snake, Moran!"

"Well, it's getting late, I'm sure he would like to go home," said Moran, looking at Holmes sympathetically.

"No need to be so modest, they should have given you a commendation for that!" said Moriarty.

Holmes stared at his paper, still in Moriarty's grip. "It's alright, I'll stay."

"I'll... make this quick. I was invited to breakfast with the top brass," began Moran, "on the veranda of one of their houses. A swamp-adder fell from the awning. It probably smelt the milk in the milk jug next to me. Actually, there were two next to me, one on each side, and a cow creamer.

"It wrapped itself around my neck, but I grabbed its head and held it away from me. It wouldn't release me, so when its tail slid across my face, I bit it."

Moriarty shook his head in admiration. Holmes continued staring at his paper.

"That angered it, so it squeezed even tighter. Not knowing what else to do, I gave it what it wanted - I pushed its head into the milk jug. It let go and I shoved it entirely inside. Then, I topped up the jug with milk from the other jug, put the two jugs together by their mouths, and hurled them over the railing."

"And to think," said Moriarty, indignant, "you were never invited back! You saved their lives, and they didn't lift a finger to help you!"

"I have my own ideas about that," muttered Moran.

"That's... incredible..." said Holmes, woodenly. His gaze fell back onto his paper.

Moriarty shook his head again, as if in wonder of it all. A moment of silence passed, then he stood and gave Holmes his paper.

"Thank you, Professor! I'll be going now," said Holmes, quickly. Moriarty nodded at him, smiling warmly.

Before either of the other men could say another word, Holmes made for the door with a few long strides. He walked back to his rooms in a daze.

 

 

The next morning, Holmes, Trevor, and dozens of other students who had been seated for the past fifteen minutes watched Professor Moriarty shuffle into the lecture theatre. Without saying a word, he began to fill the blackboard with equations.

After the professor broke his chalk for the fourth time, Trevor turned to Holmes.

"Do you think he's ill?"

"Hungover, more likely," muttered Holmes.

"Hmm, I never thought of him as the type to get carried away. He didn't show any of the signs you told me about," said Trevor. "But it could have been his birthday, or something."

Holmes looked at him. "I think it was, Trevor. I think it was."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The _Chronicle_ , which I made up, was the weekly campus newspaper of Camford or Oxbridge or wherever this is set. That editor stepped down soon after the mascot fiasco, and it was renamed either the _Reporter_ or _Gazette_.


End file.
